With An Element of Uncertainty
by E-sap445
Summary: The world at stake and beginning to burn, Draco and Hermione leave the battle for the wizarding world in hopes of saving humanity. Ahh.. the shameless plug.... Review! Previously Steel and Chocolate
1. Peace Pulls on her Coat

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my words and my thoughts**

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The first night of December came accompanied by torrents of snow and a lacey border that crept along the window panes of one intrinsically mysterious library. It was an immense and cavernous space, filled with the musk of thought and the age of genius. However, the musk and age did more than just ferment the books into a wine of infinite flavor, but granted the library an unexplained ability to decipher desire and restructure at whim. The magic was palpable, but unplottable. In a phrase this palace of secret and phenomenon was the lock and key to the wizarding world. 

Within its depths, in a corner of tremendous secret, a young man furiously read the stained pages of an earthy tome. Opposite him, a hearth merrily cast flame mirages to dance along the silver strands of his hair and the polish of his badge. Spells and incantations mulled in his mind. The hours passed, candles burning themselves to wicks. Finally, the seventeen year old shut the volume in disappointment. With a flick of his wand, each of the books reappeared on the shelves to blend into the whir of reshuffling. The wizard on the other hand, stayed where he was and, ever so gently, massaged his neck.

The hearth flickered several times before extinguishing, telling the young man to leave the book stacks and return to his dorms. He stood and, in a flourish of black robe, strode from the chair, from the corner, from the library, and into the stone halls of Hogwarts. Shadows raced to follow the young man descending into the lair of Hogwart's most devious.

Torches licked the walls of the staircase and the sound of footsteps echoed hollowly before ceasing. Before the young man stood a stone wall, covered in several colors of ominous looking vines. The young man ate a black veined leaf and drawled "_Nox noctis est nostri"_. The wall dematerialized into a thick mossy mist. He stepped through the mist and into the Slytherin common room.

An enormous fire place was the only source of light and it only washed the room in unnatural green, breding shadows to whisper along the walls. Except for the fire's cackle, there was no sound as the young man approached the fire. He leaned against the mantle, heating his hands above the molten licks. He skin appeared ethereally green and, without turning, he addressed a rapt audience. "Zabini, Nott, Baddock, Urquhart." He paused. "What have you accomplished?"

His skin indistinguishable from his robes, Blaise Zabini stood. "We have the order to unite the lower houses of Slytherin and Gryffindor," he paused, "We also have the locket you wanted." Blaise walked closer and extended his arm. The other young man slowly took the proffered locket. Suspended from a finger, it turned slowly, lapped in green.

"Thank you." he spoke with his steely eyes focused on the locket in hand. Thoroughly exhausted, the four other Slytherin blended back into the shadows, their footsteps retreating. Once again, the blonde was alone.

His eyes closed as he orchestrated how that rag-tag cult should find the Horcrux. '_Stupid b__loody Gryffindors' _he mused. At that point he walked through the common and ascended eight floors. He came upon an enormous Sphinx, nestled in Egyptian sand and basking in the starlight of its backdrop. "Unity" he whispered. The great feline lowered her head to gaze at the young man and his badge before rising to grant him access to the Head's Common.

Upon entering the common he took no pause. Instead he glided up the marble stairs that plateaued before dividing into two opposite staircases. The staircases were made of the same pale stone but to the left, a plait of silver carpet emblazoned the middle of the staircase. To the right the was carpet, not silver, but a ribbon of russet gold adorning the staircase.

At the plateau he turned left. With a tap of his wand, he slipped past the threshold of his door. He lit the candles running up the planes of his numerous and towering bookshelves. The candles graciously spilled light on the contours of the lush silks in his bed, the carefully ordered books, and snowy owl that rested in a silver cage. He began to strip, meticulously removing each article and folding them. He stepped into a pair of silk boxers before crawling under the heavy bedding.

As he slept the December wind continued to blow and the lace on the window grew more intricate along his tall panes.

* * *

The dawn broke blissfully in the dorm past the strip of gold. Hazily sun-breaths painted gold upon the myriad auburn threads and red sheets, and among the hazel curls was the romance of a caramel sun. The mane haloed the girl who lay tucked among the sheets and at her feet was a paneless window holding a frozen lake, virgin snow, and the breaking dawn. 

Aside from the bed's tranquil scene, the room was in complete disarray. Her cherry-wood desk was masked by hundreds of papers, scrolls, and ink stains. The handwriting on all of the papers and scrolls was nice, if not beautiful in its alternating breadth and ornate cursive loops; however the writing was illegal but to her and its ubiquitous nature seemed to overwhelm the room. Thick, well-kept books lined the shelves of several bookcases and several lay on the floor, underlined and so filled with illegible notes they were useless to anyone but her. Among several of the shelves were jars of varying size and color and roughly bound books clearly made by the girl. Most of the walls were vast windows, but left-over wall space was cover with formulas and spells written in beautiful and illegible handwriting.

Perhaps you are bright and have deduced that she is brilliant, for the posted theorems and beautifully illegible handwriting are the tell-tales of genius. However, you couldn't possibly have known what every student in Hogwarts seems to know, she is the most brilliant witch of her age.

As the sun made its brilliant ascent, a scruffy looking cat jumped onto the bed. Slowly, every so slowly it inched toward the girl. When it reached her, paw after careful paw, it climbed atop her chest and began to vibrate, almost violently, with purrs.

"Too early, Crookshanks! Go away," her attempts to make the cat leave were halfhearted and neither did the cat move nor stop purring. Hermione shifted on her side and cuddled the cat against the rise and fall of her chest. So among her pillows and sheets, Hermione spent the early morning hours.

* * *

"Mornin', Mione" drawled a ginger-headed boy. Although he really had only recently noticed her, she had actually been sitting beside him for thirty minutes, conversing with Harry. Ron would have noticed sooner had not a peculiar type of food appeared before him that morning. It was pancake shaped, a mottled purple, and had not tasted dissimilar to oatmeal. He was intrigued and already had eaten five. 

Thousands of carriers flew into the Hall with parcels, papers, and snowy crown. "Harry… Harry!" Ginny tugged at his sleeve. He turned from Hermione and kissed Ginny's nose. She rolled her eyes and they smiled. "Have you bought your dress robes? Or should I buy them for us?"

Hermione didn't mind the interruption for she watched a lithe and silvery owl descend before her. It offer her a rolled parchment tied with a crimson ribbon. She hesitantly took the letter, and noted that strangely no one at her table noticed the owl perched so elegantly before her. She tore it open and read:

_H. Granger_

_Come to the library. Bring no one. 10 tonight. _

_D. Malfoy_

The owl in front of her ruffled its feathers. _Respond_. She looked sharp as though the words had been spoken to her. Three tables down and directly opposite her were two grey eyes boring intensely into her own. They indicated to the owl. Hermione stared fiercely into the grey before looking to the paper.

_D. Malfoy_

_No._

_H. Granger_

She retied the paper and handed it to the owl. As it flew she knew there would be a response, a short quip about 'just do it' or something similar. So she watched the exchange between Malfoy and the bird. He absently stroked him as he read her response. A small furrow appeared between blonde brows, but otherwise he seemed assured and unperturbed. He looked up, and smirked at her.

_I will be there and so will you. _Hermione's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Malfoy only smirked before leaving the Slytherin table and smoothly exiting the Great Hall. Hermione watched him leave.

"Hermione… Hermione!" Ginny Weasely waved dramatically in front of her face, infuriated by Hermione's distraction. Hermione turned slowly, reluctant to take her eyes off of Malfoy, but completely, and joined the conversation.

"I was just saying that we need to go to Hogsmeade today," Ginny looked at Hermione, "I haven't bought gifts for anyone and Christmas is just weeks away. Christmas and the Winter Formal," she sighed exasperatedly.

Hermione tossed her hair and grinned, "The best of times; the worst of times. So much to do and so much to be done." She pushed away her plate and swung her legs over the bench. "I got to run, Gin, but meet you for Lunch at Broomsticks?" Her eyebrows were raised in question.

Ginny, still wanting to talk, grumpily conceded, "Be here on time for once, Hermione. I don't have all December to do this stuff." She stopped, and before she could get another word out, Hermione was halfway out of the Hall.

* * *

Hermione retied her hair. Curls still threatened to fall out, but at this point Hermione didn't care. Wheezing and bent over in exhaustion, she leaned an arm against the wall. 

"Not good enough. You have to try again, enunciating, feeling the transformation in your mind," Professor Snape stood behind her. "Again," he snapped, "or you'll die before graduation." "And stop bending over, I don't want to hear your pathetic pants."

The walls of Snape's dungeon sang with the magic. Repeatedly she chanted ancient incantations, her energy sapped but her mind unwilling to bend. She radiated the softest golden energy, and it hummed around her as her mind set to the task of perfecting her wand-less magic. Her damp curls lengthened with the weight of her sweat, her clothes were damp and the energy she emitted slowly burned the fibers. Finally, after much laborious concentration, the hideous desk she had been focusing on burst into flame and ash. Satisfied she smiled.

Snape, however, frowned deeper. "Miss Granger, I strongly suggest practice. It has taken you three hours to burn a desk when it should have taken moments." With a quick thought, the ashes swept away and into the waste bin. He turned away and picked an electric blue potion from a shelf. He poured about a teaspoon into the lid and handed it to Hermione.

Grateful, she swallowed the revitalizing potion and sprinted from the dungeon. _'Twelve forty-five, Ginny will kill me in twenty-six minutes'_ she thought. She came to the Stair Well and looked up. The glass dome allowed an unobstructed view of blue and the staircases swiveling just so through the air. With a huff she jogged up the first flights and then with the last of her energy sprinted up the remaining staircases to the portrait of the Giant Sphinx. She smiled, "Unity". The Sphinx moved the side and Hermione walked through.

She headed straight through the common room, taking no notice of the blond gentleman seated on the green sofa by the fire until his deep aristocratic voice stopped her, "Granger, its ten sharp. I do not abide by tardiness."

She turned quickly and glared at him, "Shove off."

Before she could turn again, the book he was reading was snapped shut, and he was in front of her. His hands reached out and grasped her arms, rendering them numb and pained. She cried out a little bit and steel eyes met chocolate. She glared and clamped her jaw in pain, and though he smirked his eyes were demanding and icy. "You will meet me in the Library, or not live to regret it."

Shouldering free of his grip, Hermione snarled, "Get out of my way". And she tried to push past him, but the years had been good to Draco and his body was tall and built. She would have sooner pushed past a brick wall. He smirked again.

"Just be there, Hermione." He turned and went back to his plush sofa. Hermione raced upstairs and Malfoy could faintly hear the rush of a showerhead.

* * *

Half an hour later, Hermione managed a weak smile in hopes of appeasing an angry Ginny. The other girl glared for a moment before picking up that morning's conversation where it had left off: The Winter Formal. "Hermione, as Head Girl, you positively_ have_ to attend." With that the girls began their walk to Hogsmeade. 

Hands passed each other on the face of Hermione's watch, money passed hands for merchandise, but the topic stayed resolutely on the Formal.

"Hermione, you must have a date for the dance," Ginny decided. "How about Seamus, I hear he's still available."

"Oh honestly, what's the point, Gin? I don't even want to go to the dance. I can't dance!"

"Hermione, don't be ridiculous. Of course you can dance, everyone can dance."

"No, Gin, you don't understand. I can't. I get nervous, and uncoordinated,"

"More than normal?" Ginny interrupted, sincerely concerned.

"You have no idea," she responded.

"Can't be possible, I mean, Hermione Granger… you're… Hermione Granger. Perfect witch and you can't dance. Oh this is delightful," Ginny chortled in amusement at Hermione's chagrined expression. "You're going to this dance, stag or otherwise, I don't care. So I suggest you find a date."

Hermione thought of Malfoy, of tonight, and wondering if he were a good dancer. "Hey, Gin," she asked dazedly.

"Hmm?" replied Ginny, concentrating on spotting a dress shop.

"You think Draco is a good dancer?" she looked to Ginny, ready to be berated all to hell for asking after him. But Ginny didn't look upset in fact, she smiled a little and off to the side.

"I think, 'Mione, that he is probably one hell of a dancer. Probably better than any other guy in this school," she paused thoughtfully, but just as soon as she had tilted her head, she exclaimed, "Ah Ha! I found it."

Excitement rang loudly in the green-eyed witch as she looked back to her friend. Recognition dawned in the girl that her friend was beautiful, laughter in every line of her face, rosy cheeks, unruly but beautiful curls that caught every light with vigor, and all in all her appearance was like dawn, rose-fingered and curious. Ginny stopped for a moment, and just appreciated the beautiful friend before her.

"Gin, what is it?" Hermione wondered aloud.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing, come on. You'll go to this dance and this is where we'll find our dresses trust me! Mum knew the maker from back when she went to Hogwarts, fabulous lady. I've met her couple of times, even went to her house. Must admit lots of cats, tons of cats even, but truly a lovely woman. I have two of her dresses, gave them to me for my last birthday, fit like a charm! Oh, you'll love her. She's like you, you know, just brilliant, but with clothes. She'll make you a dream dress, I can tell. Lots of rose and gold! It'll be lovely."

Ginny chattered relentlessly as they checked out the dresses on the shelf. Ginny pulled out several without looking and then left Hermione, alone, in the middle of a vastly over crowded dress shop. Knowing nothing about dresses she ran her fingers over the fabrics, watching as all the innumerable dresses began to shape and shift colors. Reds, Golds, Greens, Blues, Silvers, they faded in and out of every color and shape. It was fascinating.

Hermione smiled despite herself, when a touch on her shoulder startled her from her reverie. "Dear, let me make you my muse for the rest of the day. I promise you won't regret it." Hermione looked into the wickedly fashionable women's eyes, they swirled in and out of violet. She grinned at the young woman, and Hermione smiled back.

"But of course, you must be the woman Gin was talking about! I'm sorry, how terribly rude of me, I'm Pier."


	2. And Walks Out

**Own Nothing**

**Review!**

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The steady stream of footsteps choked into the odd shuffle of a tired student leaving the warmth of the library common. At eleven thirty all had left but Hermione and the Librarian. One of whom was awake.

The other seemed to have been suddenly attacked by an overwhelming desire to sleep. Her sea-foam locks were in violent disarray, lying every which way but flat, and the woman herself was splayed in a most uncomfortable position. Long, throaty snores could be distinguished from where Hermione sat, jealously eyeing the librarian's slumber.

Actually Hermione was looking at the seams on her Mary-Janes, the crescent white on her nails, the beautifully vaulted ceilings, and everything that might distract her from acknowledging what she was doing. What was she doing? She was waiting on Draco Malfoy, though she wasn't sure why. For a moment she though that something desperate in his tone had compelled her to patience. Quickly she brushed the thought to the recesses of her mind, and chalked everything up to curiosity. 'Yes,' she thought, 'leave it to curiosity to damn my pride and loyalties.'

Just as the twelve 'o' clock bells chimed, footsteps could be heard. Hermione cocked her head and mumbled, "Quick steps. It's a student". She uncrossed her legs, "Heavy reverberation, defiantly male." She smiled, "No late study groups tonight…" (She would know). She stood up and turned to face the new-comer.

Never disappointing, Draco Malfoy paced into the Library. Smooth crimson lips pressed into an acknowledging line, "Granger." He stood regally, night-like robes falling at a perfectly measured length.

For her part, Hermione ignored the regality and brushed past him, "Malfoy".

He smirked, "I'm sure you're familiar with this library and its operations, so stay beside me." He stepped up to the monstrous library and boldly walked into its dim corridors. The shelving before him swiftly melted in and out of form, books sorted and resorted along the shelving, and the eerie calls of forbidden books swelled in the air.

Hermione looked in wonderment at the library she knew so well, but had never known. With every twist and turn further into the library, she glowed a little more. 'The range of titles, the sheer and staggering volume of pages,' she thought with glee. The books called to her like wailing sirens and she ventured a finger to a weathered spine.

"GRANGER!" The blond snatched her hand, "no touching." Eyes of righteous innocence looked to him, and he melted… a little. "Look at the spines, Granger. These aren't the early editions of _'Hogwarts: A history'_, nor picture books of kindle-figs." He loosened his grip and moved gracefully forward.

Hermione looked furtively at the books. 'Promethean Torture' lay inches from her pale hand. Her eyes opened and then averted. She drew her hand into her billowing robes and gripped her wand.

The pair continued until they reach an opening. Hearty enough, a little fire cackled and two armchairs innocuously waited. Hermione's vision swept the well-worn carpet, the towering window filled with solid midnight, and the boy beside her, now reclining in one of the chairs. He motioned for her to sit in the chair opposite him, and with a flick of hair, she deigned.

The air felt charged and heavy around them. Draco turned and reached into the frenzy of books. He waited for the feel of the books to connect with fingers and sate his eager mind. He closed his eyes in concentration, silently calling the books.

Hermione only watched this display with the strongest discomfort. She looked at the hair that needed no sunlight to sing pure white notes, the hands that trapped hers moments before, and she wondered. Her mind reeled with their sudden armistice; where, when, why?

Draco smirked and pulled two books from the shelf. The first one was had a worn leather complexion and Draco unceremoniously dropped it onto the table beside him. The second was small and not so carelessly strewn; rather, Draco extended it to Hermione. Her eyes, already wide from wonder, could not open further, so her jaw went slack.

"This book…" she began, but couldn't even stutter on. She looked to Draco, pleading for his explanation. When she didn't take the book he placed it on her lap.

He lolled his head backwards, so as not to be so distracted by her hungry looks. "I suppose I should first dispel the myths around this," he gestured blindly to the book, "book."

"First, it is not infallible, only mostly infallible. Second, Salazar did not write nor have the prophetic capacity to write this book. Most likely it's the workmanship of Merlin or one of his contemporaries. And third," he faltered. "And third…" his words died off again. He pulled his head off the back to look into Hermione's eyes. He noted the innocence, their clear sweet color, and then he forged against their humanity.

"I need you. My background in Rune is inadequate to address some of the more complex syntax; however, what I have translated leads me to believe that magic is decaying. There are references to a solution, but,"

"Malfoy," she cut out.

"Now, Granger, this is no time to panic," he spoke in low patronizing tones.

"Malfoy, give me the book. My Rune is perfect." With that she snatched the book and began reading the delicate scrawl of man writing a thousand years ago.

Unseen by Hermione, Draco smirked, small, yes, but satisfied. He gave her the book.

"How did you find this book?" Hermione said in the wispy voice of a distracted, "How did Hogwarts even obtain this book, it shouldn't exist. It's archaic, illegal, and," she looked up sharply, "believed to have been burned by Icelandic mages in the early 12th century."

"Granger, I'm shocked. What you must think of Purebloods! You must consider us so common, sending our precious offspring to this dusty castle, with its sub-par staff, to mingle with the unsophisticated masses. No, it's this library, with its enormous stock of contraband, long forgotten, and… informative… literature, that has purebloods scrambling to send their sons and daughters to this sham," Draco drawled.

"This library, disturbing even to the most Hufflepuff of Hufflepuff, constantly changing and rearranging is Hogwarts' greatest draw. Do you know it reads your desires?" Draco's eyebrows rose with the question. Hermione shook her head no.

"Well, it does, and caters to them, shuffling, rearranging, and adapting to accommodate you. For the curious, shelves will race to feed your light, intellectual desires; however for the sinister, shelves moan with the weight of a million criminal tomes, the library itself confesses delight and provides you an alcove… so as to wither your soul in safe anonymity."

"As for those Icelandic mages, well, they didn't really have it in them to destroy the only known prophetic anthology, so they kept it. And, as all books eventually do, it ended up here to feed the sinister ambition of curious purebloods."

Hermione tucked a coppery curl behind her ear, and blinked several times. The book sat on her lap, awaiting discovery, but moment Hermione stilled her desire to discover the book. Instead, she thought.

She was a bright girl, of course she knew that there was something amiss with such representation of the pureblood population at Hogwarts and something was missing, but why hadn't anyone else? Of course the library could rearrange, everyone knew that, but why didn't Dumbledore do something about the ease of obtaining dark arts books… she thought… she thought… Then in sad realization, she knew no Headmaster would ever want to find that out. Why would they? Hogwarts can't control the library and if the staff could, Hogwarts would lose the fourth of the school whose power, prestige, and money gives it life.

Draco smiled as the foundation of Hermione's beliefs rattled. He knew what she would conclude. He wondered mildly if she would next ask about the other benefits luring future Slytherins, but to his surprise, she didn't.

"Why are you telling me this?" She wondered aloud.

"I tell them to you so that you will trust me. I told you I need your help. I wasn't lying, whether or not you join me is essential in preserving magic." He spoke levelly, his face jarringly void of the emotion that such a statement carries.

Silence ensued.

Hermione opened the book and began to read, feverishly. Draco didn't watch her in amazement. He didn't marvel at her familiarity with such a difficult and archaic language. Instead he relaxed at the scent of cinnamon subtly accessorizing the girl in front of him.

He had lied when he said he didn't have the background to read the text she read, but he needed a preliminary test for her. He had needed to prove the existence of intelligence beyond the classroom. So far, he thought, so well.

The fire spoke in customary lulling sparks and catches and the hours passed in a comfortable quiet. Hermione cut the quiet with the grate of a stark and frightened voice.

"So, this book… "

"We're the only ones, Granger. We have to orchestrate the final battle, kill Voldemort, and bring about the next Dark Lord, who happens to be the damnation and salvation of our whole bloody race," Draco snorted.

The corners of Hermione's lips turned in a wry though thoroughly depressed smile.

* * *


	3. Plot Sighs and Plans

**Nothing Owned, Nothing Gained**

**Yours Truely - E-sap**

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"_So, this book… "_

"_We're the only ones, Hermione. We have to orchestrate the final battle, kill Voldemort, and bring about the next Dark Lord, who happens to be the damnation and salvation of our whole bloody race," Draco snorted._

_The corners of Hermione's lips turned up in a wry though thoroughly depressed smile._

The corners of Hermione's lips turned up in a wry though thoroughly depressed smile. Her response was a breathless whisper, "No…"

Draco, assuming it was futile stab at the reality of the situation, reaffirmed with a "Yes." His eyes that roamed the amber-esque room as he patiently waited for her to ask those Granger-elusive words, _'What do I do?'_ What he was ill-prepared for was the especially noir and especially derisive snort that came from the mass of uniform that, while reading, she had dissolved into.

"What?" he commanded acidly. Eyeing the uniform mass, he attempted to find reciprocating eye contact, some kind of discerning gesture, or any change in, what was currently, completely unreadable. He waited silent and unmoving, then his fingers began to piano, then his neck flushed, hands clutched, and he had prepared assault when finally, after fifteen seconds, Hermione spoke.

"Voldemort's Horcruxs have ruptured the fey-constructed container of magic reserve," she sat up, tugged her uniform into form, pulled her legs from under her and primly crossed them.

At the tilt of Draco's fine-haired eyebrow, she poured forth history from between her jaw and nose, "When the wizarding world split from that of fey, our magic took on an absolute value. By which I mean that there will never be more magic or less magic at any given point… at least, on earth.

"About fifty percent is endowed to the magical creatures and environment, thirty percent is endowed, unequally, in wizards, and five percent for human experience. The remaining reserves of magic are used for natural population fluctuations and for the maintenance of its fey-constructed container.

"And Voldemort's Horcruxs seem to have ruptured it, though I'm not sure why. As for the rupture, his magic serves as a temporary seal, stemming the flow of magic leaks from the reserves. His magic is takes a major hit from the restraining of so much magic, but he wouldn't realize it as he's been restraining it since his second Horcrux in Hogwarts days."

Draco cut in quickly, "yes, of course. So when as soon as he realizes what he's restraining it will only be a matter of time before he utilizes the magic reserves."

The fire in the hearth seemed to glow a little duller. She stared transfixed by the translucent amberiescence curling away from the long-burning logs and the leather-bound tome comforted her as only a book might. Her curls created a helmet of emblazon bronze around her mind, which worked furiously on the problem at hand. Meanwhile, his working mind directed unfocused eyes to the wintry windows, where they marbled in colors of gray and metallic and gloomy manor pools.

He waited for solid moments where he pulled himself from the marbled colors, before lazily replying. "What's there to do?"

Hermione looked up, curls falling under her chin, "It's not so easy, Malfoy. If we're to have any impact we need to work on this now, and furiously. And before I help you, I need you to be honest… what are you in for."

He had expected this, but he still felt empty in answering… what was he in it for? Before long, strong, honest cement filled the empty and he met the deciphering look, "Me."

"You…"

"Me."

Hermione appraised the lack of nervous movement, the set of his eyes and her lack of other options. Harry was needed entirely for the fall of Voldemort and additional stress would throw him from sense, Ron was indispensable to Harry, and Ginny needed to stay as far from the fray as possible. Draco was it or alone.

"And you can't do it alone, I'm all you have," Draco began with disdain but fatigue ended his phrase lackluster. Similarly his eyes begin to lose their acuity and beneath them began a slow siege of blue veins.

The girl didn't look at him, but responded in a nod.

The lights dimmed around them, flickering as dying candles are want to do and the two teens walked from their alcove, to the vaulted convening room, to the stairwell, where they slowly plodded up to their floor, to the Sphinx, where they yawned a "Unity", to the plateau, where they walked off… one to the right, one to the left; one on gold and the other on silver.

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_**Review, s'il vous plait. Seriously, feel free to comment on either the merits or faults of whatever I've written.**_


	4. A Gaelic Man

**Own Nothing, Darlings.**

**Opting for shorter chapters and faster updates... yes... no...?**

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If Crookshanks could manage anything more narrative than meowing, purring, and yowling he would have uploaded his long and impressive nine lives into a Hermione-friendly format. As is, he is incapable of such description and thus attempts to make his finer points known. The first point is that he is himself an extraordinary snuggler, exemplified by action. The second point, although less eloquently made, is that he only has three teeth… the story behind this remains locked behind the language barrier. The third point is that he has a knack for knowing when Hermione needs to wake up and enforcing said knack. It is this third skill that he now employs.

With a swift-pawed J-approach, Crookshanks flopped upon the left mountain of Hermione's voluptuous eiderdown. He was careful in employing stealth and the utmost levels of concentration whilst slinking across the terrain, for the less stealthy Monday approaches lead to a Crookshanks-to-floor plummet and a cantankerously hurried Hermione. So he padded, pawed, slinked and slinky-ed to an adequate proximity before… YOWLLLL.

Hermione awoke with a start and, for a moment, her boisterously curly hair eclipsed the pre-dawn embers. Deftly she pulled back the scarlet eider, the white flannel sheets, and the several miscellaneous blankets before throwing her legs off the side and tripping off the bed. As was her usual custom, she leaned over the bed and manually tucked, puffed and tugged her numerous beddings into comeliness.

With almost thoughtless effort she flicked on the music system, to soundtrack her efforts. The music system itself was a miraculous bit. The music can from a shoddy (however, meticulously clean) matchbox situated between a Rune tome and a jar of unidentifiable aqua ooze. Hermione had created the matchbox on a whim during summer break, inspired by the antique and entirely too expensive music-boxes she'd always dreamt of owning. It played a panoramic-mood-adapting mix in a mellow but crystalline croon. As for this December morn, the piano genius of Claude Bolling filled the room and questions of revelation filled her mind.

She bustled, she read, she dressed and when the winter belated dawn stepped from her rosy sea so did Hermione from her chamber.

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Hermione's early morningtrek to breakfast had always been something of an enjoyment to her, she relished in the seemingly desolate halls, the dozing portraits, and the healthy reverberation of her pace. The echo of her worn treads had always reminded her of her mother, of growing up and of being a 'big girl', but today the reminders were in a decidedly nostalgic key and had an intangible quality. She noted the interpretive change and felt its origin in the previous night… in those complex horrifications, those dull forecasts and in the lightening-blond youth who brought them to her.

The thoughts were brushed from her mind she pushed open into the Great Hall. The morning poured in from every angle, fairy-ing in the facets of crystal and reflecting off glistening meats. Hermione smiled and pushed a bit of hair behind her ear before walking to the Ravenclaws. A house of early risers. Ravenclaws were currently the only table with full occupancy. She looked for a seat and found it beside Fionn (pronounced Finn) Ronan.

"Morning, Hermione," he said with a lilting, albeit groggy, Irish accent. He pushed his books aside and prepared, with practiced procedure, her cup of tea. _Half milk, honey and cinnamon. _

"Thanks," she said softly and gratefully accepted the tea. Between sipping and cradling the tea to her chest she peered over to his leaning tower of books.

"Fionn." She laughed early morning-gently, "Which essay didn't you complete?"

The Gaelic snunched his nose in a most I-wish-I-hadn't-even-signed-up-for-this-class-manner and sighed an acerbic, "Potions. Bloody Potions is going to kill me." Quickly raising decibel and pitch, he continued, "Four feet on Scandar's Complex Love Potions?"

Hermione giggled a bit and ruffled in her bag before pulling out her own paper, "A reference…" Fionn's arms went around her body before she could really comprehend, momentarily overwhelming her with his oceanic scent and quidditch muscle. It was over very quickly, too quickly if you'd have asked her, and he immediately began scribing.

"Hermione, how do you manage this? It's brilliant… I mean these references and the…

"Oh, Come off it, Fionn," she interjected merrily and he smiled up from his hunched writing position. The two intellects settled into routine conversation, and the Hall began to fill.

As mentioned before, Ravenclaw is always the first in and the last to leave, seemingly due to an academic disinterest in socialization or sleeping. Second are the Slytherins, appearing at their table for sustenance and then leaving as silently and chillingly as they had come. Gryffindors do their boisterous breakfasting a bit later than Slytherins, but there is enough of an overlap for dashes of conspiratorial conversations and mutually malevolent glaring. Then the Hufflepuffs wade in at the very end, eat very fast and then rush to their morning classes. It was all very routine, almost ritualistic.

Though deep in conversation with Fionn, Hermione noticed the entrance of one very bed-tussled looking Harry Potter and at his side was Ron, who never really vacillated in degrees of tussled-ness and began to exit the her conversation.

"Hey, Fionn, I'll see you in Potions, yeah? Here, wait… give this," she said absently, "to Hannah. I think I lent her my Potions…" Hermione blithered on, pulling all her papers into her bag. Bronze hair fell in light-reflecting torrents around her as she gathered her things. Beside her, Fionn watched amused by her generally frenzied nature and her frenzied hair and her long, elegant handwriting.

Driven by forces unknown, he tucked some of the bronze behind her ear and brought her face to meet his, "Will you go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?"

Hermione's organizing quickly slowed and she was held, by his hand, his oceanic scent, and his eyes, his open, honest, cerulean eyes.

"Ah… ah… I would love to.

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